Now — That Heroic Spirits' Strength

"I'll go too."

〈Sword Emperor〉 Elma, with 〈Demonic Sword Krishra〉 in her right hand, had — somewhere along the way — pulled back her robe-hood and was standing alongside Merea.

Damp black hair lifting on the wind, in pale-purple eyes, a strong light of will.

The demonic sword in her right hand, sensing Elma's combat-stance, was emitting a kiki-ki — a high, cry-like note.

"— Truly — this side?"

"Yes — resolve made."

Elma had been running from Mūzeg.

Because she had thought a square confrontation was unwinnable.

The numbers were too different.

The opponent was a nation.

But, now, Elma settled the resolve.

The trigger was meeting these other 〈Demon Lords〉 in this place.

"What they are chasing is me, the 〈Sword Emperor〉. If I run here, I cannot face the other Demon Lords. And —"

Elma looked at the demonic sword exulting in combat in her hand.

"That swinging the sword for fellow 〈Demon Lords〉 in similar circumstances is, in my read, an action that holds to the 〈Sword Emperor〉's pride."

If it is for saving others in similar circumstances, then, like her ancestors once did, she will raise this sword to the heavens.

In this situation, at minimum the heart will be — like that older hero.

In Elma's chest, that resolve had risen.

"Mūzeg is a strong country. So the other Demon Lords can run in different directions. Naturally, other pursuers may wait at the destinations — but that is, in my read, better than facing Mūzeg. — I will, even if my own fate runs out, make the gap for them to escape."

Elma genuinely meant it.

But — there was someone, very near, who would not allow that.

"That approach is wrong. — Clashes with my conviction."

Merea.

To Elma's self-sacrificial declaration, Merea threaded an unambiguous negation.

"Everyone — alive, together — must hold."

That is wishful thinking, Elma was about to say.

Even surviving this place, by not running and confronting Mūzeg, she would mark herself for Mūzeg's eye, and the quiet life after would recede.

So — those who can run, should.

But Elma could not say it.

Because —

— A moment ago, I — to this man — handed the action-authority.

In the moment of looking at Merea, Elma had been one of those.

Before her resolve had firmed, Elma, also, had wished on Merea.

So —

— I cannot say it.

To say it would be to lie to herself.

"I will, with full force, save all of you. Whatever anyone says, that is decided. So — leaving even one behind — no."

This man is, almost certainly, a sweet man.

Elma had registered.

This man's idiotically-sweet line, and the strength to say it straight.

And, on hearing his line —

The relief in her own heart.

---

Merea's line, riding the 〈Throat of the Music King (Yurun Yura)〉's carry-effect, reached the other Demon Lords clearly too.

And it set in them a single resolve.

Merea's line.

*— Leaving even one behind — no.

The master to whom they had handed the action-authority had set out that guideline.

So — what would they do.

They had pushed the responsibility onto him.

Wished, one-sidedly.

Believing that, in this situation, where everyone here cooperates and they are saved, that was the best.

Then —

— Following is the only option.

The master was, evidently, a sweet man.

Having shown demon-god-like strength, he then said don't sacrifice anyone — truly sweet talk.

Even so —

— Not bad.

This situation — whatever road they take, every road is, surely, painful.

If it weren't a painful situation, they would not have climbed this sacred mountain to begin with.

Then — let them go down the road they judge as good.

How did they read the man's line.

— Good. Embarrassingly good — embarrassing on the helped side.

So —

— Help us.

We will, also, help the master, so —

— Help us, too.

— that line — let us trust.

---

The Demon Lords, slapping their cheeks to settle their resolve, beginning to take up their weapons — Merea registered at the corner of his eye.

Below, the Mūzeg formula-corps, watching for this side's reaction, were closing the distance, edging in.

Holding them in check by gaze, Merea, internally, thought.

— A little more. A little more — give me time.

Merea wanted to give the Demon Lords as much grace-period as possible.

He himself had already settled the resolve and was ready to move at any moment, but not every 〈Demon Lord〉 was the same.

If he moved, the move became a clear signal-fire, and the war-flame would, in one go, spread.

This we-watch-each-other-and-edge-in moment was, in fact, the last time the Demon Lords had to settle their resolve.

"You're kind."

Beside him, Elma, sending a sharp gaze at the formula-users, let a small smile up and said it.

"…Not really. In a sense, I'd say I'm being strict."

"Why?"

"Because prepare to fight — is what I'm, in effect, ordering."

Was that the right move. In Merea, that read held.

His action and words had, almost certainly, changed their road.

Without him, some would have, peacefully, run.

— A 〈Hero〉's responsibility.

His parents, once, had carried what a 〈Hero〉 must carry.

He, having achieved nothing yet, did not think himself their equal — but, even at small scale, the fates of those his line and action had changed had to be drawn through with full force.

— Don't waver. Look forward. That's what was decided.

Soon someone, unable to hold the tension, would blow into action.

Soon, soon.

From there, time felt strangely slow.

But the start, when it came, was easy.

Merea did not miss several Mūzeg formula-users peeling off at the edge of his vision.

Going to flank, surely.

At Merea's slight rear, Aiz reported it under her breath.

Merea answered her under his breath, putting her at ease.

That was, almost certainly, going to be the start-signal.

Reading it, last, Merea said to Elma —

"— Don't die. The grave-building help — I haven't paid back yet."

"Hah — same to you. The good time you gave me — let me pay back, after."

Elma elbowed Merea's flank.

Merea raised the corner of his mouth slightly.

And —

— Came.

From left and right, several Mūzeg formula-users had circled in, trying to assemble a formula.

A quiet opening of war.

But, also, an unambiguous opening.

"The right — to me."

Elma, short, tilted her foot to the right.

To which Merea —

"Then everything else — to me."

— said, and brought his palms together.

"Eh?"

To Merea's line, Elma, body already pulling right, let an empty sound out.

---

Until everyone has, properly, settled the resolve —

— I will hold the line of battle.

Now — that Heroic Spirits' strength.

The strength that supports the conviction in me.

---

"〈White Lightning of the Lightning God (Celesta Barca)〉."

A clap — palms-meeting sound — and in the same instant, from between Merea's joined hands, a spell-circle expanded.

In a blink it became phenomenon and surfaced into the world.

White lightning.

A bachi-ri — the sound of lightning cracking out.

It was loaded into Merea's body.

Wreathed in the strange register of the white-lightning incarnate, without a beat lost, Merea stepped a single stride to the left, and the white-lightning afterglow trailed in space —

Merea Mea's figure vanished from the spot.

That this was a super-speed motion — those present registered it only when, in the next instant, three Mūzeg formula-users to the left were blown away.